Two weeks passed in a blur. Hermione had told Arthur about what had happened between Voldemort and Draco. She had told him everything, even her odd visit to the Aquarium. She'd told him Theo had encountered the Order, that he had spoken with Molly and Kingsley and the rest.

Arthur had burst into tears.

The only thing she had decided not to disclose was Theo's plan to take her place in the second game. She felt it was too unfair to the others. Even that was an euphemism. It was cheating. She also felt selfish because within the first couple of days of Draco telling her about this plan, she had made up her mind.

She would let Theo do it. She wasn't happy about it. Most days, she changed her mind, decided that she would go through with it. But then she thought of 'violence at its finest' and she lost all remaining slivers of confidence she had in her skills. This wasn't something she could try until she got the hang of it. Failure did matter. Failure would cost Draco and Keela's life.

In the end, Theo was more likely to perform well. Which meant Draco and Keela had more chance to survive if he did it.

Pansy had been a player during the third edition of the games, in 2000. Hermione had thought that all ex-Slytherins would have been part of the Empire, but she'd been wrong. Pansy was cruel during the school years but didn't want to be part of the Empire, and she fled once she realised what Voldemort's apocalyptic plan was. She had been labelled a traitor.

Theo and Pansy loved each other. Had been together during their last year at Hogwarts before getting separated during the Battle. Then a Scavenger had brought back Pansy and Theo couldn't accept it. He refused to let her do the second game. Zabini had been her Trainer, and he didn't care about the plan.

Theo, Pansy and Zabini never got caught.

Theo survived the second game.

Pansy died in the third game.

Hermione couldn't comprehend why Theo would do the same thing for her. They didn't love each other. They weren't together. They shared a bond—more like a mutual understanding—but nothing deep enough for him to risk his life for her.

Until she understood that he did it for Draco.

Draco had started disappearing more often while Theo continued his Scavenger runs. The Polyjuice potion was brewing at the lodge in Yorkshire Dales—he had brought her there only once. He had taken ingredients from the old Potions classroom and taken everything he needed to the lodge.

She wished he allowed her to come. She missed everything related to magic.

She and Draco had fallen into a routine for two weeks. He trained her like he said he would, although she wouldn't partake in the second game. It was barely four days after she had decided to trust him that her brain chemistry shifted. It was progressive. It had started with blood rushing to her cheeks whenever Draco was getting very close, to a spark tingling somewhere in her stomach when he smiled—it didn't happen often. Now, even the lowness of his voice scratched a good spot in her brain.

Her body was reacting to him being effortlessly handsome. That was all, and it was normal. It also had a name: attraction. Also, his smell was bewitching.

But when they were sparring with each other, there always came a moment when they were very close to each other, close enough for their body heat to mingle. Their eyes would lock before he threw her on the ground after a wrestling move.

Today, she examined his lips move before realising he was talking to her. She blinked. "What?"

"I said, what do you do if I grab you from behind?"

'Grabbing from behind' awoke something unholy inside her—

"I push back my hips and overthrow you."

His eyebrow quirked up. "And?"

"I get my feet behind yours, so you lose balance."

"Shall we?"

Hermione shook her head, her arms and her hands, trying to sedate out every nerve. She adjusted her stance on the mat, widening her feet, and Draco disappeared from her point of view. Heat would soon coat her back.

A second later, his chest rammed against her back, his arm snaking around her throat to immobilise her. He had just told her what to do. Something with hips.

Hips.

Hips?

One of his hands was on her hip. She felt every finger of his splaying on her, like five streaks of flame, pinning her against him. His face was right behind her ear, the arch of his nose only skimming her earlobe.

"What's going on, Granger?" he said low, sending tiny jolts all the way down her spine, hair rising. "Throw me down."

He didn't sound angry, didn't sound impatient. His voice was… challenging. Because he knew what his body was doing to her and he enjoyed it.

Reality crashed down on her at once. She pushed her hips backwards, slamming against his pelvis, and she pulled on his arm at the same time. As the weight of his body was pushed behind, she looked down and wedged her feet behind one of his.

Gravity did the rest.

He couldn't hold on to anything and he fell on the mat. "Good," he grunted.

Her chest was heaving and she was flustered. She looked away.

He got back on his feet, dusting himself off. "Again. Faster, this time."

They retook their position on the mat. This time, Draco was quicker and tightened his grip around her neck. Hermione's blood rushed to her head while she buried each thought. She did the exact same moves, but when he fell, he grabbed her sleeve, pulling her down with him.

She dropped right on top of him, and it felt like she had landed on rock. But she didn't want to appear weak and distracted because she wasn't. So she rolled over to get out of his reach before her body could interpret how much she liked it.

"Good, you're learning," he said.

"Can't get the upper hand on the floor," she replied, standing up. She untied her hair and leaned, head upside down, to gather all strands of unruly hair in a tight ponytail. Straightening up, she wiped the sweat off her forehead.

"You're distracted," he stated, watching her.

She placed her hands on her hips but caught his eyes only briefly. "I'm sorry." Her cheeks flushed.

"Is it… me?" he smirked.

She rolled her eyes, scoffing. "Don't flatter yourself." Her heart was pumping. She should have contradicted him, but it was too late.

"Do we need a chaperone after all, Granger?"

There it was—he enjoyed this. She had never once doubted the size of Draco Malfoy's ego. He was very much aware of the effect he had. A part of her wished that he was distracted too. For the same reason.

"Shut up," she told him. "Can we work on punches, now?" She didn't wait for his answer before lunging at him to throw a jab.

They sparred for the next hour, creating bruises on each other. Draco left probably more on her than she did on him. But she liked the idea of leaving her mark on him. He wasn't going soft on her. He let her crash on the mat. He landed blows on her. The only thing he did was stop her fall if he had the intuition that it would be a bad one, or that she'd hurt her head.

The more days passed, the more Hermione's moves became fluid, like an energy flow. Her brain had absorbed the knowledge and could anticipate—most of the time—the hits that were coming. Instead of freezing to wonder which defence would be best, her brain sent signals to her limbs to respond under a second. She felt the switch when it happened. When her brain surrendered control of the fight to give it to her body.

Turns out her small size made her faster. She got quicker at ducking and evading the blows, and she used her opponent's weight against them.

Two weeks after that, Draco finally called her ruthless.

The Threat is Rising

by Rita Skeeter

The threat to the Holy Established Empire is growing as opposition to our doctrines increases. Muggles and Wizards are being sighted more often, and instead of fleeing, they are taking up arms. We are mobilising all the resources necessary to eliminate the threat and strengthen the Empire's presence around the world.

The Holy Established Empire wishes to reiterate that any form of resistance, opposition, refusal to conform or adhere to our standards is a betrayal of His Dark Authority and will be viewed as such. If you want to break free of your madness and join the Empire, go and kneel in front of the Ministry of Magic in London. The Death Eaters there will take you to your new homeland, where you can swear an oath to His Dark Authority and receive the Dark Mark.

Make the right choice, make the only choice.

Restored article of EMPIRE THIS WEEK
found on a basketball court in a park [11.10.2009]

November was nearing its end and when Hermione woke in her room that morning, there was a vial on her chair. She recognised it, although she had succeeded in forgetting it. It reminded her she had been here for almost three months.

She had to retake the Contraceptive potion. She found it odd that they would simply leave it on her chair like that without nobody monitoring if she actually took it. If she wanted, she could dump it down the toilet at the end of the hallway.

But she didn't. She drank it.

After a couple of minutes in which she brushed her hair with the fork and tied them in a braid—now that she took the time to look at herself, she noticed they were longer. Today, she wouldn't be training with Draco—he had to stir the Polyjuice potion at the lodge and his mother had requested his help for something.

At breakfast, only Reine was seated at their usual table. The other players glared at her when she entered. She was doing what she was told, hoping to be visible enough to prove to everyone she was still a player. Even if she was cheating. She was just as prisoner here as the rest of them.

Was she?

Hermione got her tray of food and sat in front of Reine. "Morning," she said, calculating the appropriate amount of cheerfulness in such a saying.

Reine took a sip of her water, looked at her above the rim of the glass. She set it down. "Hello."

"How's your training going?" She genuinely wanted to know, but cursed herself as soon as the words left her mouth because…

"It would be different if you were training with us."

She flushed. "Erm… yes, I'm sorry."

Reine's expression shifted to an incredulous look. "No you aren't."

Hermione's chest rose with a feeling of defeat."No… I'm not." She had been honest with Arthur. Reine deserved the same amount of honesty, although she didn't need to know as much as Arthur. She was still a stranger.

"Listen," she continued, lowering her voice and leaning forward, "I heard that the second game will be very violent.I just… I think you need to know."

Reine's eyes gleamed with an emotion Hermione didn't identify. "So you have intel on the games, now? What are you doing, exactly?"

Hermione was taken aback. "No, I just—it's what I've heard."

"I think you are cheating."

"Reine, please…" Her breath was rushing out of her. "They're training me differently because a lot of people place bets on me. If I don't bring them money, if I make them lose their bets, they'll kill my parents."

Reine frowned and put down her spoon, staring at her. Hermione realised she had never told her—or anyone—that the Empire had kidnapped her parents to force her to play. She also realised that she'd said they'd kill her parents whereas they would make them participate in next year's games. But it was the same. Her parents would die.

"I didn't know," Reine said simply. "You could have told us."

"It's a complicated situation." There it was, Draco's favourite word. It was indeed the perfect word to describe the whole situation. Complicated. "But my hands are tied and so are Dra— Trainer Malfoy's."

"He is not our Trainer anymore."

"How are things going with Flint?"

Reine scoffed and tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear. "He has bad manners. Bad breath also. He yells at the time."

Hermione felt a pang of something in her chest—regret, maybe. "Does he help you improve, at least?"

"I don't need any man to help me improve."

At this, Hermione actually smiled and picked up her spoon to eat. "No, I guess you don't." An idea crossed her mind at full speed. "Do you think I could train with you today?"

"We are your band, Hermione. Of course you can."

Hermione finished her breakfast, her eyes always returning to Reine's face. Reine's features were harder. Harsher. But in the lines of her skin, on her forehead, around her eyes, around her mouth, Hermione could see it.

The haunting.

"Do you…" she cleared her throat and looked at her plate. "If you wish to talk about the first game, erm—I just want you to know, we can. You and I. We can talk about it."

Reine stopped moving, her spoon halfway to her mouth. The white of her eyes seemed to gleam above the table when she gaped at Hermione.

Then her eyelids fluttered, and the surprise was gone. She ate the oatmeal on her spoon and spoke without looking at her. "I saw things I wasn't ready to see."

Francine, Oliver and Arthur were happy to see her on the wrestling mat in the old Transfiguration classroom. Hermione noticed how the training had shifted to something more advanced—slightly. Trainer Rathmore didn't demonstrate moves as much, but she pointed to parts on the body they could grab, or bend or break the easiest.

Flint was looking at her like he knew something she didn't. He hovered often beside her, grunting advice, his foul breath wafting on her face. Today, she paired up with a player, number 6, to spar. The young man had raven hair and bulging biceps but wasn't much taller than her.

She was proud of herself when he didn't manage to throw her down as much as he expected. They were still sparring, circling each other, when he landed a punch in her left flank.

"How's that feel, golden girl?" he snarled.

She pressed a hand to the soft part, and hissed. But number 6 lunged at her, not letting her time to rest.

She smashed against the ground after he swiped his foot across her ankles. "How's that special treatment going?" His voice was demanding, malicious.

Anger sparked in her veins and she got back on her feet in a flash. Her teeth were clenched, her jaw aching. Disengaging from the fight, she interrupted the sparring on the mat next to them. It was Cho and number 28.

She looked at number 28. "Let's switch partners."

Number 28 frowned and wiped sweat off her forehead. "What? Erm—"

"Please."

Number 28 looked at Cho for approval.

"It's fine, let's switch," Cho said.

Hermione took number 28's place in front of Cho. The fight that followed wasn't what she was expecting. The last time she had fought with Cho, she had been soft, weak and fragile. Now, Cho was stronger. Quicker. Her punches were harder and they were precise.

When Cho landed her third jab, one that knocked the wind out of her, she understood that maybe it was too late. Maybe everyone saw her as an outsider. Nobody was sympathising with her anymore.

She was the golden player.

She had special treatment.

She wasn't one of them.

In the afternoon, Flint and Carrow made both of their bands run around the Quidditch field—not the castle. Hermione wasn't feeling that comfortable being back here after a month. Even if they weren't running inside the Arena, there was something unsettling about the thumps of her steps. Her feet remembered. Her boots remembered the blood that had crusted underneath them.

Her hands were red with the cold, her whole face burning with the bite of the wind. She wondered why the Empire made them train outside when it was near winter. Yes, the wards kept the harsher temperature out, but it was still cold. Why did they train outside, as if the cold could simply brush off them? As if they couldn't catch pneumonia or warm themselves with magic?

She wondered what Draco was doing at this moment.

Wondered when he'd be back.

She was running her fifth lap with Oliver and finally starting to warm up when echoes of shouts travelled to her ears, a few hundred meters further. As they got closer, the scene unfolded in front of her, and her heart rumbled.

Reine was arguing with Flint. Francine was bent on her knees, catching her breath. A few curious players had stopped their run to watch.

"Why don't you let her rest for a few minutes?" Reine shouted. She was a few feet away from Francine, gesturing with her arms.

Hermione and Oliver arrived at their level. "What's going on?" she exhaled, chest rising with each breath. Puffs of grey escaped her mouth and twisted in the air.

Flint was towering over Francine, his face the colour of a beet. His mouth was twisted in a repulsive expression.

"I say run, you run!" he howled at Francine. She was sweating profusely, and her breath was whistling. Hermione could hear it—a shrill, displeasing sound. "You stop whenIsay you stop!"

A flash of rage blinded her. She stood in front of her exhausted friend, facing Flint. "Give her a rest!"

"Get out of my face, mudblood," he spat.

"Herm…ione—" Francine panted behind her.

"Everyone needs to stop once in a while!" she barked back, detailing his ugly features. "You can't expect her or anyone to be a fucking running machine!"

The blow startled her, but it wasn't unexpected. Flint's hand connected with her mouth with a powerful slap that made her entire head swivelled back with the force of it. Her bottom lip split open, blood dripping on her chin.

"Shut your fucking mouth, little cunt."

"Her-mione…" A strange cry cut Francine's words in half, and Hermione turned to her.

Francine was clutching her chest, and there were tears gathered in her bloodshot eyes. She looked grey and crinkled, like her skin was made of parchment. She was heaving, her face distorted by uncontrollable winces.

Oliver dashed to her. "France?"

Francine fell on her knees and Hermione's body reacted. She lurched forward to grab her shoulders and the back of her head.

"I-I-I'm…" she panted, eyes fluttering with panic, open to the sky and the faces above her.

"Francine?" Hermione reached for her back pocket to grab her wand and air left her lungs.

There was nothing in her back pocket. She didn't have a back pocket. There was nothing she could do.

"For fuck's sake," Flint muttered somewhere, and his tone suggested he knew what was going on and just wanted to get it over with. Reine barked something at him venomously.

"You… you remind me," Francine whispered, her glassy eyes stopping on Hermione. Oliver held her clutching hands. She winced louder, and her eyelids screwed shut with pain.

It looked like a heart attack.

"We're here, France," Oliver said.

By this time, other players had arrived, stopping their run. Hermione ignored them all, refusing to give her attention to anything else than her.

When Francine opened her eyes again, something had changed. Her irises were lighter, fuller, like something had settled inside her. She looked at Oliver and spoke without words. Then her eyes slid back to Hermione.

"You remind me of my daughter, Anne." Francine exhaled and Hermione waited for the next inhale.

And waited.

Waited.

"France…" Oliver whispered, bowing his head to rest it on her chest. He cried quietly.

Hermione's mind fell silent as tears pooled in her eyes and slid down her cheeks. Francine's eyes had lost their light and spark, and her mouth had gone slack.

As the voices around them grew louder, the wind turned colder and Hermione's senses heightened. The wind was howling and the people were shouting.

The wind was howling, the people were shouting, and Francine was dead.

She rose to her feet and ran.

There weren't a lot of places of solace in the Empire for Hermione. Hogwarts itself had been her comfort place for years, but now she couldn't even wander where she pleased without being monitored. She knew Gamemasters or Death Eaters were doing rounds in the castle to prevent players from slipping into cracks and holes.

So she was in her room.

Had been for the last 94 minutes when she heard a knock. She didn't answer.

"Granger, it's me."

Hermione hadn't quite decided what she wanted to do or say, but her body moved toward the door. Draco slipped in as soon as she cracked the door open and closed it. As soon as he was in, she realised how tall he was, how much space he took in her room. She backed against the window until her back touched the glass.

His hair was slightly tousled, like the wind had wrestled with them, and he looked out of breath. He was covered in black from head to toe, from his cloak to his jacket to his two-inch thick sole boots. Keela wasn't with him.

He was about to speak but his gaze stopped on her face. "What in the name…" Already, he was unsheathing his wand and approached her. She surrendered her wound to him just as he reached to hold her chin, examining her swollen lip, split open with an ugly gash. "Tell me you tripped."

"I tripped," she said. She hadn't expected her voice to sound this shaky.

The glow of his wand turned a warm shade of orange as he aimed it at her mouth. His eyes were trained on the cut, narrowed and focused, but the rest of his face was hard.

Her lip itched a little before it warmed. The pain retreated to become just a dull ache tingling on her mouth.

"There." Draco put away his wand. "Managed to close the cut, but it's not quite healed."

"It's better." She touched the wound from the inside with her tongue. "Thanks."

"What happened?" he glowered. He hadn't stepped back, so his body was just a mere foot from hers, and she had to crane her neck so they could lock eyes. "What did you do?"

"I trained with the band today."

He didn't ask why, and she was grateful for that. But he stiffened. "So… did it happen in tacticals?"

"No." She could have said yes. She should have said yes. It wasn't important—

"Did a player do this?"

"No, but—"

Draco's eyes widened before his jaw wired close. "Tell me the name."

"It doesn't matter, Malfoy."

"Tell me the fucking name."

"He's sort of my trainer—"

His nostrils flared as he understood without any name being spoken. "No, Granger, you're my player now." He closed his eyes and took a deep inhale. "Fuck, now all I can think of is how I'll kill him."

She knew he could. If Draco said he wanted to kill, he could. She wondered at one point in the past couple of months she had stopped caring so much about morals.

It wasn't important for her—who had done what, who had hit whom.

It didn't matter if Flint lived or died.

"I heard what happened," he uttered, and there was scratch to his voice. "I'm sorry. About Francine."

Maybe it was the fact that he said sorry for something he knew was affecting her, maybe it was the fact that he didn't call Francine by her number. But Hermione's heart squeezed with emotion, swelling and beating painfully. And she knew that if she wallowed in that feeling too much, she would drown.

"I hate this place," she whispered, on the verge of tears. Her eyes sank to the floor, and her forehead leaned just a few inches from his chest.

His warmth, his smell—

He didn't move, but his posture turned rigid. "Me too."

When she turned her gaze up to him, she was smacked with the mirror of his eyes. Showing her, telling her that they shared the same mind, the same emotion, the same thought in the same moment. Like two inmates sharing a look on the gallows.

It occurred to her that even if they didn't have chemistry, at least they had symmetry.

She rose on tiptoes and clutched his face to bring his mouth down to hers. Neither of them moved a muscle for a whole two seconds, dumbstruck with surprise, before realisation settled in.

Then his arm curled behind her back to lock their stance. He opened his mouth, and she slid her tongue inside. A spark danced in her veins as their lips moved in tandem. She couldn't believe how soft his lips were, how hard his body was, how fast he reacted to her. Although she had initiated the kiss,hewas the one kissing her now, his mouth slanting against her, demanding and taking at once.

Her fingers grabbed his hair while his other hand cradled the back of her head to hold her in place. When a groan rumbled from deep inside his throat, a jolt of pleasure unfurled in her stomach and she knew she wouldn't be able to detach herself from him.

But it ended too soon. Draco stopped kissing abruptly, peeling his arm off. Unlocking her. Freeing her.

Her mouth was cold without his.

She was breathless, trying to read his expression. He was averting her eyes.

"I'm sorry." His voice was gravelly, but devoid of emotion.

He stepped back, and her room was so small that only a step looked like a mile. "I have—" He frowned, then shook his head. "There's something I've to do."

Hermione hadn't undone the knot of her tongue before he was gone.